The Fragility of Consciousness
by octocelot
Summary: "Very well." Master Malfoy is relieved. He has provided the family with a first-born son. Scorpius is wrinkly and ruddy, and his father holds him gingerly, as if not quite wanting to latch on. / Scorpius grows up knowing duty, but defining whether that's duty to find happiness or duty to uphold family values comes into question when he meets Albus Potter.
**Trash. Haha. I love writing trash. Actually I wrote this for a challenge and Uni likes Scorbus, so here we go.**

* * *

 **i. learn the rules**

When Scorpius's first cry slices through the heavy heaving of his mother's labored breaths, his father is standing in the room on the farthest end of the hall, clutching the edge of the mahogany desk. Across from his father hangs a wizened scroll which expounds five rules of the Malfoy lineage. Only one matters to the household right now, and it is the one that sprawls across the top of the page in swirling letters: Bring honor to the family name.

The doctor wraps Scorpius in a silk sheet and hands him first to his mother. She makes a thin smile and wipes his slick forehead, whispering, "I'm glad we made it." Then the doctor takes him from his mother and starts the long walk to the study.

The sound of hard soles bounces to the high ceiling and back down again, and the hallway seems to go on forever. Master Malfoy has loosened his grip on the desk. "How is my son?" he says, voice strained.

"Well."

"Very well." Master Malfoy is relieved. He has provided the family with a first-born son.

Scorpius is wrinkly and ruddy, and his father holds him gingerly, as if not quite wanting to latch on.

* * *

"Scorpius, what does that say?" His nurse points at the tapestry on the wall, the other installment of the five Malfoy rules. As an adult, Scorpius will think that some drunk Malfoys one night decided to write some pretentious pact and that it stuck around for centuries afterward, but as a child, he venerates it.

Scorpius can't read well yet, but he has long since memorized the words. "Listen to your elders. Choose your allies wisely. Choose your enemies even more wisely. Power is power."

"So when I tell you that well-bred Malfoys do not slurp their soup, what do you say?"

"I say, 'yes, ma'am.'"

"That's an improvement."

* * *

 **ii. test them**

Scorpius practically vibrates from excitement on the way to King's Cross. He can't place what he's looking forward to, exactly. Later, he'll say that his intuition was telling him something important was going to happen.

They first see each other on the platform before loading. His heart seems to be expanding and contracting so dramatically that it might burst. He's clutching his mother's hand, and across from the station, his eyes meet those greener than Slytherin's robes. He clenches his jaw. That must be the Potter-Weasley spawn.

Scorpius looks up to his father, silently asking for guidance. How should he feel about this? his expression asks.

His father doesn't pay attention to him. Instead his eyes are locked on those of Mr. Harry Potter. Scorpius watches this exchange, drinking in every twitch in his father's face. He doesn't miss the nod that the two men share.

What has happened between them intrigues Scorpius for a minute, but Harry Potter kneels to the ground and caresses his son's cheek. Scorpius is stabbed by a needle in the gut as his mother gently prods him to the train.

"I'll see you soon, Father," he nods.

He is met with another nod.

* * *

Scorpius obsessively combs his hair back with his fingers. He simply _must_ get into Slytherin, and he's afraid that the hat won't find him cunning enough. After all, if he were cunning, he would have found a way to talk to Albus Potter on the train. When his name is called, he tries his best not to trip on his robes and sits in the chair that's much too big for his body.

 _Oh, you're plenty curious. Loyal, too, but you kick against the status quo. I think Ravenclaw..._ the Hat mutters. _But I sense some resistance._

"I'm hate my lessons. I despise friendship," Scorpius offers, his stomach leaping into his chest.

 _Good try._

The next thing he knows, he's being shuffled off to Slytherin.

He walks right up to the prefect, who also happens to be Head Boy. "I'm Scorpius Malfoy," he says, enunciating his words carefully. "I look forward to having you as my esteemed colleague."

The head of the table dissolves into snickers, and Scorpius lifts his head more proudly, trying not to blush. Perhaps imitating his father at this time isn't the best decision.

"And I'm Albus Potter," a voice from behind him says, hurling his words at the upperclassmen. "I think you should be looking forward to having me as _your_ esteemed _Ravenclaw_ colleague."

Albus nods at Scorpius and gives a little motion of his hand as if to say, "come." Scorpius almost does.

* * *

They don't meet again until sixth year; the student body is much larger than it used to be, and they always seem to register for the same classes in different trimesters. Scorpius, of course, isn't paying _attention_ to that or anything; he's simply staying on top of the gossip (which could come in handy any time) about the school celebrities.

Unfortunately (or fortunately), Divination is so unpopular that there's only one class available each year. It's an easy grade, which is the only thought that can comfort Scorpius when Professor Smith is going on about what seems to be incoherent rubbish.

Out of the corner of his eye, Scorpius catches movement coming towards his paper and instinctively blocks it. A hand crashes into his arm. His eyes raise to meet Albus's, but he quickly shifts his gaze and removes his arm. "Sorry, Potter."

"You messed up a little, Malfoy." Albus reaches over, crosses out a word, and replaces it with four new ones. " _Rhodotypos scandens_ flower. Poisonous."

"I don't think so," Scorpius mutters, crossing out the four newly written words. " _Calophyllum inophyllum_ flower. Deadly."

"You wanna bet?"

"Do you have a problem, Potter?"

"Only with ignorance, Malfoy."

They end up going to the library together after class. Albus is right, and Scorpius will never talk about it again, not even when the two start going to the library together after class every day.

* * *

This is the fiftieth time they've met in the library after Divination. They're nestled in some beanbags in the corner of the library, behind a big shelf of history textbooks. Homework is trivial to Scorpius at this point, but Albus insists on doing Arithmancy together.

"Can this be our safe space?" Albus asks, breaking the silence.

"Hm?" Scorpius makes a few more scratches on his paper. The numbers don't make as much sense to him as they do to Albus, he admits.

"You know, a place where we can say anything."

"You can always say anything to me," Scorpius says. "It's not really a big deal."

"Scorpius. It is a big deal to me."

Scorpius speculates. Perhaps Albus likes the security. Perhaps Albus is as scared as he is. Perhaps Albus just wants to know that their conversations about the pros and cons of the Ministry and its policies, and debates about human nature and philosophy will stay their own. Perhaps Albus wants to keep talking to him about the fragility of consciousness forever.

"Okay."

* * *

"I have to go to potions now." Albus stands and shoves his papers into his bag.

"Aren't Ravenclaws supposed to be neat about their work?" Scorpius asks dryly, eyeing the crumpled homework.

"Ravenclaws can be whatever they want to be," Albus retorts.

"Here, I'll walk with you." Scorpius grabs five of the ten Albus manages to carry around.

"Don't you have to go to class?"

"We're going in the same direction."

Scorpius never tells Albus that his class is on the other side of the building and that he sprints to race the bell after Albus closes the Potions door behind him.

* * *

This is the seventy-first time they've met in the library after Divination. No, Scorpius is not keeping track. He just happens to have a very good memory.

They're laughing when Madam Perth shushes them from the librarian's desk. Scorpius is wheezing in an attempt to stay quiet. He didn't imagine that looking at sixteenth century French portraits could be so amusing. They've been looking at the same French noble for the past five minutes, making fun of his tiny mustache and forgetting entirely about Divination.

Albus surreptitiously pulls out his quill.

"What are you doing?" Scorpius manages between snorts.

Albus extends the ends of the mustache so it curls onto the portrait's forehead and around his eyebrows, snickering. "Bonjour bonjour, look at my fancy moos-taash. Have a crêpe and a snail! A snail on a crêpe!"

In two seconds, Scorpius realizes that he wants to take Albus to Quidditch games, and give him presents, and eat dinner with him by a lake as the sun sets on the water. And in the next second, he realizes that he can't and that he is immeasurably afraid.

"I have to escargot," Scorpius says, picking up his books. "Studying."

* * *

Scorpius is flipping through Albus's Charms textbook on the way to the Potions classroom one day. Albus is yakking on about a strange dream he had the other day, and did it mean anything, and perhaps he should talk to Professor Smith about it, and Scorpius are you listening to me.

Scorpius swears he is.

They arrive at the Potions classroom much too soon, so Scorpius clutches Albus's textbooks hostage against his chest.

Albus has long eyelashes, Scorpius realizes. He's also got an eyelash on his cheek, Scorpius realizes.

Scorpius hopes his thumb isn't trembling too much as he wipes it away.

Albus looks up, and Scorpius thinks he might want to kiss Albus then. So Albus does it before he can decide if he should.

* * *

Scorpius stares into the mirror. He has his father's blonde hair, his grey eyes. His chin. His cheekbones. His pale skin. His unsculpted chest and skinny arms. His pointed features. His sneer.

His face is twisted by hatred into something Scorpius can hardly recognize. He hates himself, he realizes. He hates that he wants to hold hands with a boy, share a butterbeer with a boy, share a coat on windy days with a boy. He hates that he wants to hike mountains with this boy, take photographs of this boy when he's just woken up and his hair is mussed, adopt a cat with this boy. What he wants has never been okay, and it will never be okay. His parents would hate it. How could he do this to them? He's the last thing they have; he needs to take care of the family when they're gone. He won't be able to raise a family of his own blood, see little hims leaping down the stairs. He hates the idea of a wife, smooth and soft, lying next to him as he pulls smoother sheets over her hips that are much wider than Albus's. Merlin, why did he allow this to happen? It was so careless of him.

And now that he's in this vortex, he doesn't think he can get out. Not when Albus is in there, and not when Scorpius wants him so badly.

Bitter tickles the back of Scorpius's throat as he hunches over the bathroom sink, breathing hard. The checkered floor tiles spin, and he clutches the bowl harder.

Scorpius speaks to himself. "Who am I kidding?"

His knuckles are as white as the marble of the sink. And in the toilet he's thrown an open letter that opens with, "Dearest son, we would like you to meet your betrothed..."

* * *

Scorpius is not exactly the biggest activist for truth, but the letter that he mails to his father the following morning contains a whole lot of it.

* * *

 **iii. break them**

"You wanted to see me, Father?"

"Yes, son. Sit down."

Scorpius sits.

His father speaks again.

"I received your letter, and that is why I sent for you. I am worried that you have forgotten your family duties."

"I have gotten excellent grades on all of my tests, Father."

"I think you know what I'm talking about. I didn't raise you like this, Scorpius. You are the only heir to the Malfoy name. You'll be the one conducting business, and you can't be openly homosexual," his father says, enunciating the last word so carefully it sounds like a swear.

His father is completely closed off, his nose ever pointed upwards. When Master Malfoy is the Dragon, and Scorpius is the scorpion, Scorpius knows who'd win. "You know how conservative the Wizarding world is; we're still using quills. It's bad enough that we're connected to..."

Scorpius knows what his father is going to say. "Excuse me, Father. If I may, that was not my fault."

Master Malfoy's face pinches tighter than Scorpius thought possible. "You will not speak to me this way. Marriage in Pureblood society does not usually come from love, but can end in love."

"Excuse me, Father. Are you happy?" Scorpius asks bitterly. "Are you happy with the way it turned out? If I may."

"No, you may not."

"I don't want to marry her."

"Where are you getting all these ideas? Don't tell me Muggle Studies has influenced you."

Master Malfoy has that look on his face, the one that Scorpius knows means he will never change his mind.

"I can't. Don't make me say it again. I can't love her. I can't marry her. Oh, Merlin." Scorpius is groaning now, putting his head in his hands, fisting his palms in his hair, wanting to rip his blonde head off its neck. "Oh, Merlin. Merlin. Merlin."

His father towers over him, the smell of crisp laundry wafting off his chest.

Scorpius tries not to cry, but it's hard when he feels so much. Embarrassment ripples through him like a current. Why did he have to tell? Why did he think his father would understand?

"You understand?" his father says. He puts a hand on Scorpius' hair and pats it down, the other still in his pocket.

"I didn't ask to be like this. You know I would never ask to be like this."

"Scorpius, I wonder about that. Are you doing this to punish me? Is that it?"

Scorpius's lungs twist and strangle themselves, and when he opens up his mouth to speak, his larynx is tied.

"That must be it," his father says. He sounds almost amused. "I had rebellious thoughts when I was your age, too."

"You think this is about you?"

Scorpius wipes the snot from his nose, angrily, and lifts his chin to stare his father in the face. Tears spill over his high cheekbones; in that moment he hates that they look like his father's. His voice sinks to a whisper. "I wish you wouldn't."

"Don't worry about it too much. There's time. We won't have you married for about five more years."

* * *

 **iv. jump**

The bride cries as she walks down the aisle. She looks an elven princess; the morning sun shines a halo around her shimmering white dress. The rose petals scattered on the ground are no match of beauty for the soft pink on her cheeks.

Scorpius pulls back her veil, crying for a different reason.


End file.
